


Nothing New

by purpleeyesandbowties



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation AU, bc that's my whole jam, bucky has a cat named winter bc i think i'm funny, not super plotty just bucky figuring out he's his historical crush's dead bf, steve is polyamourous and you can pry that from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleeyesandbowties/pseuds/purpleeyesandbowties
Summary: AU in which the Winter Solider is quietly and unceremoniously taken down by SHIELD in 1979, changing the course of history. Coincidentally, Jamie, a historian in 2014 Washington DC, lives with persistent headaches, strange dreams, and the feeling that he’s missing something vital.





	1. Chapter 1

_ 1979 _

Peggy Carter was a little old to be out in the field, but hell be it to anyone who dared mention it to her. Although, she thought as she struggled into her uniform, maybe fifty-eight was a bit old to be doing this. But a chance to capture the Winter Soldier was an opportunity too sweet to pass up. Besides, her retirement was rapidly approaching, and she was none too excited to meet it. One last mission, she had promised the very few people who outranked her in SHIELD. She had been on at least five last missions, but, like her age, no one dared call her on it. 

By all accounts, the mission shouldn't have succeeded. If Peggy hadn’t come with them, it probably wouldn’t—it was only because of her quick action that they were able to get into the building at all, let alone gotten to their mark.

Peggy had seen many things in her time: men terrified to die, desperate to stay alive, even those who wished for death found it in them to fight a little longer. But this man…his eyes were dead. He fought, yes, but there was something mechanical about it. Like he was going through the motions on someone’s command. And when they had him backed into a corner, when it was obvious he wasn’t going to win this fight, right when most men would fight their hardest, he just….stopped. His arms dropped to his sides. His head tilted like he was listening to instructions only he could hear. Those cold eyes grew more distant. It happened too quickly for Peggy to stop her bullet. If she had a few more seconds to react, she could have saved him. But her aim was true as it always was, and the Winter Solider fell. 

When asked later, Peggy couldn’t say why she stooped to remove his mask. Maybe it was because he had stopped fighting. Maybe it was because the mask resembled a muzzle, and every man, no matter who they are—were—should live their last moments free. But she did. She unbuckled the mask to reveal a face much younger than she’d expected. 

Before this day, no one had even seen Peggy faint. Nearly every SHIELD agent had seen something that was enough to rock their foundations, and most had come out the other side on a swoon. Not Peggy Carter. She was too composed for that. But when she saw the face of the Winter Soldier, she staggered backward into the arms of her fellow agents.

“No,” she murmured. “It can’t be. It _can’t be!”_

And that was all she would say about it. The Winter Solider faded into obscurity, a locked file buried under miles of restrictions and no photographs. And Peggy went on with her life. She convinced herself that the man under that mask was a coincidence, a stranger who looked like someone she used to know, the stress of the mission and lingering ghosts shaping his features into familiarity. She pushed the Winter Soldier aside and never told a soul what—who—she thought she saw.

—

_ 2014 _

Jamison Rockefeller Brunes went by many different names. His teachers called him Jamison, his parents called him James, and his little sister called him Jamie. His friends called him “hey man,” or “what’s up, dude”. None of those names felt quite right to him. He learned to live with it. A lot of people hated their names. He was just one of them.

Jamie woke up before his alarm, slapping the off button before it had a chance to start ringing. He sat up and pressed his hand to his temple and tried not to groan out loud. Another headache day, then. He’d lived with these splitting headaches nearly his whole life. No doctor had ever been able to pinpoint exactly what caused the headaches, but he had an ongoing prescription for migraine pain-relievers that he used as sparingly as possible. Waking up with one never signaled the start of a good day, but he’d manage. He always had.

As he sat up the last dredges of his dream faded away, leaving behind mixed feelings of relief and annoyance. His dreams weren’t always pleasant, especially considering they were almost always followed by the headaches, but he always felt as if forgetting them was some sort of a loss. 

He’d lived with the dreams his whole life, too. Recurring dreams, and dreams that built upon each other, like they were one connected story played out over years. Some of them were pleasant, usually the ones about himself as a child. He and another little boy ran through adventures and mishaps, slipping in and out of trouble with the help of the other. Some of the dreams weren’t so nice. Cold nights spent shivering, curled up next to that boy, praying for him to keep breathing. The ache of an empty stomach even as he offered his last few bites to the skinny boy. Dreaming of an unfamiliar terrain, people he didn’t know but somehow trusted at his back, the heft of a rifle in his hands. The people were always vague, unrecognizable, but he felt that if he was just able to look closer, he’d know them. And the worst of all—a train, a train, a train in the mountains and a fall, a fall into the depths of a deep ravine. Reaching out for the boy, the boy that was now a man, knowing he could never reach him. Cold and pain and then, somehow worse, darkness and nothing at all. Well, that was a lie—sometimes there was more after the fall. Those dreams were disjointed and infrequent but their intensity more than made up for their scarcity. The only constants in those dreams were a black mask, a silver arm, and cold words whispered in his ear. He never let himself think too deeply about those dreams. He did his best to forget them.

Jamie shook off the phantom pain, shivering despite the warmth of the sun across his pillow. He took an extra-long, extra-hot shower. He’d found that hot showers helped to wash away the memory of cold and some of the pain of the headache. 

It worked today, thankfully, he thought, as he started to load up the boxes and boxes of stuff into his car.

“Big day,” he told Winter. She meowed at him self-importantly and allowed one head scratch before darting off. “Big day,” he repeated to himself, straightening his tie. 

Thankfully there was someone at the museum to help him unload. Actually, there were several people. Tired-looking interns shook his hand quickly before making a beeline to his boxes. He nodded at them in sympathy—he’d done his time as a museum intern (several times), and it was a thankless job. The museum curator himself came out to greet him and Jamie cursed himself for taking off his tie on the drive over.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Jamie said. He winced at a sudden throb in his head but shook it off quickly.

“Same to you, Dr. Brunes. Such exemplary work! We are thrilled to be adding it to our collection. Research projects like this are hard to come by, and I’ve rarely seen such meticulous, detailed work before.” The man laughed pleasantly. “It’s almost like you were there!”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve dedicated the past two years to this, and I am absolutely thrilled you’ve agreed to add it to the exhibit.”

The man—God, Jamie wished he could remember his name—slung an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, escorting him inside. Jamie glanced back at the interns apologetically. 

“So, walk me through the exhibit again! I read your thesis of course, but it’s quite dense, wouldn’t you say? Give me the cliff notes.”

Jamie sighed quietly. He knew his research backward and forwards—he could probably recite at least a few major chapters by heart—and the elevator pitch made it sound so _boring._

“I’ve been researching familial bonds that developed between squadrons during World War II because of their shared situation and similar feelings, especially between the unwillingly drafted, using the Howling Commandos as my base area of study and comparison.”

The curator smiled. “And that’s the part we’re interested in.”

Jamie pasted a smile on his face. The part about the Howling Commandos was actually just a small part of his work, but it seemed that was all anyone cared about. At least anyone outside of academia. His mentor had been thrilled with his whole thesis, and it had earned him his doctorate in American history at age of thirty-four.

The exhibit was set up quickly and efficiently, with little to no help from Jamie. The most he’d done was flit around, trying his best not to snap at the interns to be careful. They probably knew just as much about setting up exhibits than he did, but he couldn’t help it. That research was his baby. He’d certainly spent enough sweat, tears, and sleepless nights working on it to feel like he’d birthed the damn thing. To keep his mind off of it, he turned to the other part of the exhibit, the permanent part. 

The Captain America exhibit took up more than half a floor. The man had lived a short, action-packed life, and there was a lot to cover. There was an hour till the museum opened, though, and Jamie felt awkward being alone in the big exhibit. So he went out to grab a cup of coffee and something to eat in the meantime. He knew it was childish, but a part of him wanted to see how people would react to the new addition. He wondered if anyone would bother reading his research. Doubtful. Even his fellow history majors got tired of hearing him talk about it.

“Whatever, I don’t care,” he muttered around a bite of his croissant, caring very much.

Two hours later, when the steam of people entering the museum was steady and brisk, Jamie slipped into the crowd and paid his admission. He loitered around the first floor for a while, gathering his nerves, and then entered the Captain America exhibit. 

An overhead voice told him all about Captain Rogers, his life, his illnesses, the serum, the war, his unit, his sacrifice. Jamie stopped in front of the Barnes memorial for a moment, taking in the image of the serious, uniformed man. His own reflection stared back at him, a trick of the light. He stepped back to get a clearer look.

In his research, Jamie had been over and over any and all accounts of Barnes before and during the war. Diaries, letters, first-hand accounts, medical records, anything and everything. Sargent James Barnes was Captain Rogers’ best friend and the only Howling Commando to die in the war. Jamie had tracked down a long-lost journal tucked away in a dusty corner of an old attic. He’d read his words, traced the ink with (gloved) fingers.

Somehow, Barnes felt like a personal friend.

Jamie turned to go and ran directly into someone. 

“Sorry,” he said on instinct and sidestepped to go around the guy he’d crashed into, but a hand shot out and grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Hey, what’s your problem?” Jamie demanded. The man had several inches and probably twenty pounds—or more—of muscle on Jamie. His military-cropped blond hair was covered with a baseball cap, but it wasn’t pulled low enough to hide his blue, blue eyes. Very familiar blue eyes that Jamie had seen in countless pictures and news clippings from the 1940s and 2010s and some choice posters hanging on the walls of Jamie’s room. 

Captain _fucking_ America, looking two inches from barfing, had his arm in a steel-tight grip.

“Bucky?” he said, hardly more than a whisper.

“Uh,” Jamie said, manners kicking in over the shock of seeing his personal hero and the subject of many, many late nights of research standing in front of him. Looking like he was about to faint right there on the floor. “No. Sorry. I’m Dr. Burnes.”

“Bucky,” Captain America repeated like he hadn’t heard a single word. “You’re…. _Bucky_.”

Jamie attempted to pull his arm away again. He’d heard that joke probably a million times since his classmates found out he was focusing his dissertation on the Howling Commandos. It was why he’d let his hair grow out, and let a suggestion of a beard fill out his face. It cut down on the resemblance, and thus, the teasing.

“Sorry to disappoint, but no.”

“No,” Captain America said, louder now. People were starting to look over. Jamie’s hackles rose. “It’s you. How—”

“Let go of me, man!” he said, jerking his arm away. To both of their apparent surprise, he did. Jamie turned on his heel and bolted without another word. Captain America did nothing to stop him. When Jamie risked a glance back, he was standing stock-still in the center of the exhibit, look for all the world like a kicked puppy. Eyes sadder than any Jamie had ever seen followed him, clear and blue and lost in the past.

—

Jamie ran all the way back to his house. He slammed the door behind him and slid to the ground, his back against the wood, trembling from exertion.

“What the fuck,” he muttered. His voice lifted to a shriek. “What the _fuck!”_

Winter came over to inspect him. He touched her head once before she dashed away. “Damn cat, you’re supposed to be my comfort animal,” Jamie huffed. He thunked his head against the door. “Well, Win, I finally met Captain America. It didn’t go well.” 

He shrugged off his suit jacket and popped open the buttons of his dress shirt, shrugging it off. Bruises in the form of fingertips circled his arm, right where he’d grabbed Jamie. He’d grabbed Jamie’s flesh-and-blood arm—just Jamie’s luck—and they looked deep enough to stick around for a while. Damn superheroes with their damn super-strength. He sighed and yanked his shirt back on. He pulled himself off the floor, leaving his shirt unbuttoned, and shuffled into his bedroom. He pointedly did not look at the posters of America’s golden boy hanging above his bed as he dropped his dress slacks and suit coat in a pile next to his laundry basket. 

One comfy shirt, an arm removal, and a pair of sweats later, he fell onto his shitty couch and pulled his laptop towards him. Winter leapt into his lap, finally ready for affection. Jamie huffed a laugh and let her settle in. He pulled his hair into a messy bun in preparation.

Research. That’s what he was good at. Jamie was a lot of things, but above all, he was a historian. He knew the worth of picking apart a crazy idea to find the rational center of truth.

And this…this was the craziest idea he’d stumbled upon yet.

He opened his browser and…stared at it blankly. Two minutes passed, and though he had typed out several search terms, he deleted each one. He groaned and ground the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“What do I even look for, Win? ‘I broke Captain America by looking too much like a dead man despite new hairstyle’? ‘wikihow to tell a superhero you’re not his best friend?” Jamie said. Winter let out a _merrp_ of disinterest and abandoned his lap once more. She meandered over to the door and sat down in front of it.

“You’re so lucky you’re a cat,” Jamie grumbled, standing up to retrieve her. He’d bother her into comforting him if need be, because he really needed some cat snuggles right now. Instead of picking her up, he decided to plop down on the floor and bury his face in her stomach. She didn’t like it—predictable—but at least she didn’t move. Jamie could have stayed there all day if it wasn’t for the knock at the door. He might not have noticed it from the couch. It was only because he was lying on the floor that he even heard the light tap, and saw the shadow of a pair of feet under the door.

He groaned very quietly. He picked Winter up, in case she tried her escape routine again, and opened the door.

He wasn’t even surprised to see Captain America standing in front of him. He started when Jamie opened the door like he was surprised anyone answered. He had his hat in his hands, fiddling with the band of it. Absurdly, Jamie felt the urge to laugh or to chide him about being nervous. Bizarre, but it seemed like today was that kind of day. In any case, it was enough to switch Jamie’s mental address from ‘Captain America’ to ‘Captain Rogers’. That was probably more polite, considering Captain Rogers was in civilian apparel and possibly undercover.

“Bucky,” Captain Rogers said, still looking as dumbstruck as he had at the museum.

“Uh, still no. My name is Jamison. Jamie, if you want. Or James, I guess. But that would be kind of weird because….” he trailed off.

“Oh. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. You just….” Captain Rogers shook his head. “You just look so much like him.”

Then his eyes found Jamie’s empty shirt sleeve, and his breath caught. Jamie ignored it, as he had his whole life. People got weird about his missing arm. It got old fast. Instead of commenting on it, he kicked the door open further and said, “Yeah, I get that a lot. Well, come on in.”

Captain Rogers ducked his head and took an endearingly awkward step inside. Jamie dropped Winter and waved his hand for Captain Rogers to follow him.

“Thank you,” Captain Rogers blurted. 

“For what?”

“I…I don’t know, for not freaking out or calling the police.”

Jamie actually snorted. “Yeah, like I would call the cops on Captain fuckin’ America.”

“Steve,” he said instantly. 

“Sorry?”

“You can call me Steve.”

“…Okay. Steve. Do you drink coffee?”

This time, it was Capt—Steve’s turn to blink in surprise. “Yes?”

Jamie retreated to the relative safety of his kitchen, back in somewhat familiar territory. His mom had drilled hospitality into him like it was a life-saving skill. “Good. The stuff I have is dirt cheap—and tastes like dirt, incidentally—but it’s strong and instant. So.”

“It sounds good,” Steve said politely. He took a hesitant seat on Jamie’s couch.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Jamie said retroactively. It made Steve relax a little, though, so that was good. He leaned against the counter while he waited for the water to boil. From the couch, Steve said, “do you mind if I move your laptop?”

“Go for it,” Jamie replied. He shook his head. What a weird day. Steve picked it up, and then he hesitated.

“What’s this?” 

“What’s what?” Jamie asked, coming around the back of the couch. He’d left the PDF of his dissertation up on screen the night before, reading it to calm himself about the exhibit set up. Apparently, after failing to JSTOR his way out of this situation, he’d closed the browser but left the PDF open. Jamie flushed, snatching the laptop out of Steve’s hands.

“That’s, uh, just my dissertation. Boring.”

Steve frowned. “I saw my name.”

Jamie shrugged, trying to play it off. “Yeah, well, the Howling Commandos were part of my research base. It’s no big deal.”

Something must have clicked for Steve because his face lightened and he nodded. “Oh, the new exhibit. That’s yours.”

“You know about that?” Jamie said skeptically.

Steve shrugged, looking a touch self-conscious. “I got an email about the opening. I heard there were a few letters Bucky wrote on display. I wanted to see them.”

Jamie hugged the laptop closer. Ah. Yeah, that tracked. “Getting ahold of those things almost killed me,” he admitted.

“You did that? It didn’t say who found them, just that they were new.”

“Yeah, for part of my research. I got a grant to travel to Brooklyn and poke around in attics and archives and stuff. It was….eye-opening. It inspired a chapter about the dissonance between letters meant for friends and letters meant for lovers.”

“What did you find?” Steve asked. Jamie shifted uncomfortably. “I found that soldiers lied more often to their lovers than they did to their friends.”

“What…what did you find out about him?”

Jamie grimaced, thinking back to the debates he’d held with his thesis advisor about that very topic. His speculations were ultimately unfounded by research, and he couldn’t exactly defend a gut feeling, so it had all ended up on the cutting room floor.

“Inconclusive. He wrote to a few girls he was seeing, but they were tonally identical to letters for his sister. The only letters that were different were his letters to Ste—I mean, to you.”

“Oh.” 

Silence fell between them for a few long moments. Jamie was saved by tea kettle’s whistle. He rushed back to the kitchen and hastily poured boiling water into two mugs. He gave each a spoonful of instant coffee and a vigorous stir.

“Here,” he said, handing one to Steve. He took it with a nod of thanks, and Jamie grabbed his own mug.

“Did he lie more?” Steve asked abruptly. “In his letters, did he lie to me? More than to Rebecca?”

Jamie swallowed. “Yes. He lied a lot more. I—if I can speculate, I would say he was trying to soften his experiences so as not to worry you.”

Steve nodded, examining his coffee intently. “I see.”

Jamie sat next to him on the couch. He was burning with questions—the historian in him was screaming with excitement—but Steve looked very old and very tired. He took a drink of coffee and made a face.

“Ugh.”

Jamie smiled. “Yeah, sorry. Student budget, you know. And, I don’t know, I always liked this stuff. Tastes like burning garbage, but it’s comforting somehow.”

“It tastes like the stuff we used to drink in the war,” Steve said. Jamie took another drink as he absorbed that.

“Can you tell me more about your research?” Steve asked. Jamie lit up.

“Oh, man, you shouldn’t have done that. You’ll never get me to shut up now.”

Jamie ended up reading whole chapters of his dissertation, pulling up a rough draft to read out chunks that had been cut. Steve was an absolute dream, answering questions and clarifying points. Jamie took notes furiously, already planning to call up his advisor and submit a new draft, maybe for publication this time. Jamie only looked at the time when Winter started whining that her dinner was late. He threw together some sandwiches and gave Winter her canned salmon mess while Steve took a look through the dissertation.

“I am really impressed,” Steve admitted. “I’ve read a lot of stuff about the war, the Commandos since I got out. This is the most thorough, honest work I’ve seen yet. You got almost everything right.”

Jamie fairly glowed with the praise. “You know, I tried to get an interview with you, to clear up some things I had questions about. I was denied. Many times. With some insultingly loud laughter. I didn’t get an interview, but I can say that Tony Stark personally laughed at me for asking if you were available to talk.”

“That does sound like Stark. I didn’t even know anyone had asked for an interview. If I had known you asked, I would have said yes.”

“Really? Why?”

Steve looked down, swirling the dregs of his coffee. “I….” He shrugged, seemingly unable to articulate why.

Jamie took his empty mug from him and set it aside. He sat down on the arm of the couch. “You know, it’s kinda funny.”

“What is?”

“I’ve been studying you for, like, literal years. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words about your squadron. And here you are, sitting in my living room, drinking shitty instant coffee like we’re old friends.”

“It certainly feels like that,” Steve said quietly. Jamie shook his head. 

“Oh, no, we’re not having that conversation again.”

“I know,” Steve said. He looked down, suddenly looking very tired. Jamie bit his lip. He just _had_ to open his dumb mouth and ruin what had been a really nice day, weirdness aside. Steve took a deep breath and continued, “I just. I see him everywhere, you know? Failing him was my biggest regret, I think. Him and Peggy both. If I had just…”Steve trailed off. His head drooped, his hands braced on his knees. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, it can’t be all bad,” Jamie joked. “At least you met me.”

Steve’s head snapped up and he stared at Jamie like he’d grown a new arm.

Jamie held up his hands in apology. “God, that was stupid and shitty. Sorry, ignore what I just said, it was—”

And then Steve kissed him. It was like every daydream teenage Jamie’d ever had come to life—Steve Rogers on his couch, strong and warm and tasting like instant coffee, pressing against Jamie like he couldn’t get close enough. Jamie sighed a little without meaning to, relaxing into the kiss. He shifted down onto the couch itself and Steve pushed closer still, until he was nearly on top of him. Jamie opened his mouth a fraction and Steve responded in kind. Making out with a superhero on his shitty couch—it was surreal, and yet not altogether unexpected. 

“Steve,” Jamie said softly. Steve kissed Jamie’s cheek, his neck.

“Bucky,” he breathed. 

Jamie’s blood froze. He shoved Steve away, heart hammering in his chest for an entirely different reason.

“Fuck, I—” Steve started, but Jamie shook his head. 

“No. No, I can’t—fuck, I can’t believe I actually thought—” Jamie squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the stinging building up behind them. “I can’t—I can’t be him. I’m _not_ him. Fuck, Steve, I’m _not him_ and I can’t let you, just because I _look like him—”_

Jamie cut himself off and swallowed hard against the nausea rising in the back of his throat.

“Jamie…” Steve said helplessly. Jamie took a bracing breath.

“Please leave. I can’t do this.”

Steve stood up quietly and pulled his rumpled shirt back into place. He looked as miserable as Jamie felt. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone,” he said. 

Jamie resisted the impulse to reach out to him, to tell him it was fine, to kiss him again. Everything in Jamie was screaming to not let Steve go, but he pushed it down. This was unhealthy. It was fucked up. It had to end now. 

_But it just started,_ the traitorous part of his brain whispered. He clenched his teeth. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again. And then he was gone. All he left behind was a dirty coffee mug and an indentation on Jamie’s couch.

Mechanically, Jamie collected the mugs and put them in the sink. He filled Winter’s water bowl and tried not to think about what had just happened. He almost succeeded.


	2. Chapter 2

Jamie wallowed. He wasn’t too proud to admit it. He wallowed _hard._ He spent the next full day in bed, doing a lot of fuck-all. His headache was back, full-time now, and the dreams—the dreams had never been worse. The man in the dreams had a face and that face was Steve Rogers because his brain hated him _so much_. The Steve in his dreams tormented him with nights sleeping together in every sense of the word, of days spent trusting no one but each other, of promises and fights and catching punches for the other and rough, desperate kisses. Mourning and jealousy, and silence and, oh, so much longing.

It fucking sucked. Jamie felt like he was going crazy.

He called his advisor.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me. Yeah, the museum opening went well—yeah, I’ll waive your admission or whatever, sure. That’s not what I need to ask you. I know I told you I didn’t have time to interview Margaret Carter before my dissertation was due. Do you happen to still have the address of the place she’s staying? Great…”

Jamie floundered for a pen and a sticky note, coming up triumphant on both accounts. He scribbled down the address and phone number. “Hm?” he said. “No, not a research question, exactly. I’m looking for…a second opinion.”

—

Peggy Carter was not an easy woman to get ahold of. Jamie had to go through about five nurses, aids, and security guards before they would even let him speak to her on the phone. He’d pulled some bull about his research, emailing in his extra-long and dense version of the dissertation—now getting much more use than he’d assumed it would, a full year after earning his doctorate—to convince the various roadblocks that he was harmless enough. Every one of them warned him that her mind tended to drift nowadays and that it was unlikely she’d be of any use. Jamie politely responded he’d still like to speak with her if at all possible. Over the phone, she said she would welcome a visit, just not this week because an old friend was stopping by and he had seemed in a state the last time he’d called. Jamie didn’t have to ask who the friend was. He could guess.

In the meantime, he did whatever research he could. Mostly it boiled down to him staring at pictures of James Barnes and then staring at himself in a mirror. He even went so far as to pick up a pair of scissors and bring them to his bangs. He scoffed, putting the scissors back down. A choppy haircut wouldn’t do anything but ruin four years of haircare. It certainly wouldn’t prove anything.

Peggy’s nursing home was nice. She had a whole floor to herself and a staff of very concerned and protective nurses who flanked Jamie like he was an assassin disguised as a tired historian. One of them tapped on Peggy’s doorframe softly.

“She must be asleep,” the nurse said instantly. “Best not to bother her.”

Jamie heaved a sigh and knocked firmly. If you wanted something done….

“Steve?” a stately voice asked from the other side of the door. 

“No, sorry,” Jamie said, pushing past the glowering nurse and into the room. Peggy was sitting upright in a recliner, a leather-bound book open on her lap. She still looked remarkably like the pictures of the woman Jamie had come across so often in his research. More wrinkles, yes, and grey hair but the same clear eyes.

“Hello,” he said, awkwardly hovering by the door. Peggy’s face lit up.

“Sargent Barnes! What are you doing here? What did Steve do this time?”

Jamie froze, his breath catching in his throat. She was old, he reminded himself, old and her mind had been drifting. It didn’t mean anything. 

The smile on Peggy’s face faded slowly. “No,” she said softly. “You’re not James. He died a long time ago.” 

Her shoulders slumped. She looked down at her book again, blinking rapidly. Jamie took a few steps closer until he was next to her chair. He knelt down so he was on the same level as her.

“I’m sorry. My mind….it’s not what it used to be. You looked like an old friend for a moment, that’s all.”

Jamie cleared his throat. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I…ran into Steve—uh, Steve Rogers—a few days ago. He thought I was James Barnes, too. We,” he coughed, “ _talked_ about it, but it ended badly.”

“That’s why he was in such a state,” Peggy said. She sounded fondly frustrated, and Jamie ducked his head so he didn’t have to keep looking at the soft expression on her face. 

“Steve thought you were Sargent Barnes?” she asked.

“Pretty much, yeah. I freaked out and ran away, but he tracked me down later, and even though I tried to convince him I wasn’t him, he really wasn’t buying it. Every time he looked at me, it was like he was trying to see _through_ me and find him inside.”

“You do look just like him,” Peggy said. “I have to admit, knowing that Steve made the same mistake makes me feel a bit better. Maybe my mind isn’t on its way out, after all.”

“So you think I’m him, too?” Jamie said skeptically. 

“It seems impossible, but so many things do in our lives. You saw Steve’s transformation, what he was like before…or maybe you didn’t.” Peggy frowned. “Oh, this is confusing, isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me,” Jamie sighed.

Peggy flipped through a few pages of her book, which Jamie now saw was a diary, handwritten in faded ink.

“Three-two-five-five-seven,” she said eventually.

“Excuse me?”

“Repeat those numbers,” she said. Jamie cocked his head but did as he was told. The string of numbers felt strange in his mouth like they were incomplete somehow. Peggy closed her eyes, listening intently.

“Again,” she demanded.

“Three-two-five-five-seven,” Jamie said.

“ _Again_.” 

“Three-two-five-five-seven,” Jamie repeated, echoing her tone.

_“Again!”_ she shouted, nothing gentle in her tone. Jamie’s temper rose. He shouted back, “Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight." He blinked. Peggy opened her eyes, her eyebrows lifting.

“Now why did you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie said truthfully. “Maybe I just remembered that was his number? It must have been part of my research…”

“Is that what you really think?” Peggy asked. Jamie sat down on the hardwood floor, drawing his knees to his chest.

“No,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t have remembered those numbers were Barnes’ military id. It’s not something I would have memorized. I’m not even sure it was in my research at all.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Peggy sighed. 

“I’m going to call for some tea. Would you like some, Sargent Barnes?”

“Yeah, Peg, I think I would.”

—

Peggy Carter, dream of a woman that she was, gave Jamie something a little stronger than tea and let him talk at her. They bounced ideas off each other, what-ifs and hows and whys, and with every passing minute, Jamie felt more certain he wasn’t going crazy. Because she told him things about the war and the experiments and they were things he already knew. Nothing that he could have come across in his research—things like how Steve liked his tea (fifty percent tea, fifty percent sugar) or the bullet scar Peggy hid on her shoulder that they had jointly decided to keep from Steve and kept off her medical records at her request.

He told Peggy about the little velvet box Steve kept in his duffle with a simple gold ring inside and a half-finished proposal scribbled on a bit of newspaper tucked beside it. 

“He would have given it to both of us if he could,” Peggy said. “I found it after…well, after. I read what he’d written. He didn’t say it in so many words, but I could tell he was carving out a place for you in our lives.”

“Did he love me?” Jamie asked. Peggy sighed through her nose.

“Without a doubt, James. He loved you before he loved me, though I’m sure he loved me, too. Don’t think badly of me for saying so, but it was a bit of a relief when you died. I was heartbroken for Steve, of course, and we were friends—of a sort—but I could never shake the feeling that you were my rival. Petty and childish, but it was true. If the war ended and it came down to you or me…well, Steve never would have been able to choose. It would have made all of us miserable.”

“We all were anyway, weren't we?” Jamie asked. Peggy reached out for her bottle of expensive scotch and he gave it up. She took a sip, and then another.

“Yes,” she sighed. “We were.” 

“It’s not fair,” Jamie said quietly.

“Life rarely is. That’s something I’ve found to be true, these seventy years.”

Jamie absorbed that. Then, he blinked, a memory sliding up without prompting. It felt real enough, but he still flushed when he asked, “Did we…did we have sex?”

Peggy pursed her lips. “We did. We tried, all three of us, once. Just once, though.”

“That might have had something to do with the fact that I never liked girls the way Steve did.” 

“Yes, I had guessed at the time, but you insisted you wanted to try.”

“For Steve,” Jamie finished. “Yeah, I remember. I would have done anything for Steve.”

“Yes, and he for you. And that’s the whole crux of it, isn’t it? Steve and I worked together, and you and Steve worked together. You and I never did.” She chuckled a little sadly. “I think Steve really thought that if we all got out of the war alive, we could have been together. He wouldn’t have to choose between us.”

“That sounds like Steve,” Jamie agreed. Another memory came to the surface and he choked on his next sip of scotch.

“Jesus, did Steve have sex with Howard Stark, too? On a _dare_?”

Peggy threw her head back and laughed. “I forgot about that! That’s what happens when two stubborn, reckless men get drunk together—or as close as Steve could get to it. You were drunk too, and egging them on.”

“Man, I have had academic arguments about this. I can’t believe I was right.”

“Are you remembering?” Peggy asked. 

Jamie shrugged. “A little. It comes and goes, like trying to remember a dream. I’m treating this whole thing like it’s real, even though I may wake up in the morning and realize I’m not actually him. I think the scotch is helping.”

“Not a strategy I would recommend often,” Peggy said, “but I should think that today is the exception to the rule.”

“Pass me back that bottle. I have some memories to dig up.” 

—

Jamie woke up with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and a notecard with Peggy’s spidery handwriting on it tucked in his pocket. He vaguely remembered Peggy kissing his cheek and telling him to keep in touch when he left the night before. In his other pocket, he found a folded wad of looseleaf paper, covered in his own dark, choppy handwriting. Memories that he’d written down, each page showing more of the scotch he’d been drinking. He skimmed through them quickly, bringing up double memories—the memories themselves, and his remembering of them with Peggy to guide him through the details.

The note Peggy left contained a few phone numbers, and Jamie was pretty sure he knew who they were for. 

He drank three glasses of water, fed Winter, and called the first number. Bruce Banner went straight to voicemail. Jamie groaned. Of the two men, Banner seemed the less intimidating. And he didn’t know if he could look Stark in the eye knowing that he _and_ Captain America had both boned down his dad seven decades previous. And yeah, _that_ memory had been a fun one to recall. It still felt real, in the light of day, as well as everything else he’d remembered the day before. 

He called anyway because he needed something definitive. Something imperial, something he could hold on to. Evidence. And unfortunately, Stark picked up.

“Who is this? Nobody has this number,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“Um,” Jamie said. “I’m a friend of Peggy Carter’s. I need your help.”

—

“You look good for ninety years old,” Stark said. Jamie scowled on instinct.

“And you look like your dad but less fun,” he muttered. 

“Ballsy,” Stark commented. “I can’t see why old faithful liked you so much. He’s about at fun as a wet blanket in winter.”

Jamie bristled without really meaning to. It must have shown on his face because Stark slapped Jamie’s shoulder in what was meant to be a friendly way.

“Stand down, Sargent. I’ve got nothing against your captain, just some teasing to lighten the mood.”

“Whatever. You said you could help me.”

“That I can. At least, I can try. Genetics isn’t my thing, but Bruce is off finding his zen again, so you’re stuck with me.”

“Great,” Jamie said, not meaning it.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Stark said, completely meaning it.

He led Jamie into an almost well-maintained lab. Jamie blinked. For some reason, he expected more of a mess from an eccentric genius like Stark. Howard’s lab had been a war zone, and that was coming from someone who had seen more than his share of war zones. Jamie shook off the memory, hoping the headache would go with it. The scotch from last night had disguised it at the time, but now Jamie could tell: remembering was going to hurt like hell.

Stark took blood samples. Lots. And he wasn’t an expert with a needle, either. The best thing Jamie could say was that he was quick about it. The needles also brought back memories of the war—and some blurry memories of after the fall—but Jamie clenched his teeth and breathed through the panic until he could shove it down to deal with later.

Stark was quick with the test results too. Jamie had only been twiddling his thumbs for about twenty minutes when Stark came back into the room. He looked vaguely impressed.

“Well, I’ll give you this: I have never seen anything like it.”

“Like what?”

Instead of answering, Stark leaned against the counter and took a plain white envelope out of his pocket. He pulled out a card with a short, dark lock of hair taped to it.

“Don’t ask how, but I got this in the mail a few days ago with the name ‘James Barnes’ on it from an unnamed source. Tested it; it’s authentic.”

“Let me see that,” Jamie demanded. He snatched the card from Stark, who gave it up willingly. Jamie touched the short lock of braided hair. 

_“Are you sure, Steve? I mean, it’s kind of incriminating, you know?”_

_Steve shook his head. “No one will know it’s not from a dame. Guys keep their girl’s hair all the time. It won’t be a problem. Besides, you and Peg both have dark hair. I have a type, I guess.”_

_Bucky hesitated, but let Steve cut the braid off. Steve handed the knife to Bucky, and he did the same to Steve’s hair. He scoffed softly, cradling the braid in his hand. At the moment, their hair wasn’t military-standard, but they’d been on an extended mission. Tonight, they’d get haircuts to prepare for the next mission. It was now or never._

_“What are we doing, Stevie?”_

_“We’re living, Buck. At least, we’re trying to.” He tucked Bucky’s hair into his breast pocket. “We go into battle every day. I lose sight of you, sometimes, and it scares me to death. I know it’s stupid, but….having a piece of you with me. It’ll help, I think. That’s stupid, right?”_

_Bucky caught Steve’s chin, forcing his gaze upward again._

_“If it helps you, it helps us both. Just be careful, alright? Don’t do anything to make me glad I have this hunk of hair.”_

_“You too, Bucky,” Steve said, and kissed him._

The memory hit hard and Jamie fairly staggered under the weight of it.

“Jesus, you don’t look so good,” Stark said. Jamie sank into the chair Stark offered him wordlessly. He rubbed his temple, and if his hand shook, Stark had enough tact not to mention it. Jamie set down the piece of hair.

“So, you tested it?” he prompted.

“Yup. Double-cross-checked with every database I could. That’s authentic James Buchanan Barnes hair. And—now here’s the crazy part, so hold on—I tested your blood just now and it is the same, _exact_ DNA. Congratulations, it’s a Bucky. No idea how the hell you are possible, because you really shouldn’t be, but here the hell you are.” Stark crossed his arms. “It’s actually kinda pissing me off. I don't like not knowing the why and how of something. And you are _something_. Who are your parents?”

“Which ones?” Jamie said wearily. “Because one set has been dead for half a century and the other set don’t talk to me anymore.”

Stark raised his eyebrows. “And I thought I had daddy problems.”

A crisp, calm voice that came from nowhere said, “Mr. Stark, Miss Potts is here to see you.”

“Thanks, Jarvis, let her in,” Stark said. To Jamie, he said, “Well, if I can’t do anything else for you, it looks like you’re about to have a major identity crisis and I’d rather you not do that in my work space. So.” He made a vague shooing gesture.

Wordlessly, Jamie got up. He gathered the card, his coat, and just as he got to the door, he turned back around.

“You’re not gonna thank me or anything, are you?” Stark asked, clearly expecting it. Jamie really had been about to, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to now. 

“I fucked your dad,” he said instead, because impulse control had never been his forte. It was worth it though, to see Stark choke on air.

As Stark spluttered, the door slid open and a pretty woman with strawberry blonde hair stopped short in front of him.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t know Tony had company,” she said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Pepper.”

She held out her hand. Jamie took it. He swallowed, but the words came out easier than expected, like he’d been waiting a lifetime to say them.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Bucky.”


	3. Chapter 3

Since Bucky was in New York anyway for his meeting with Stark, he decided to stay a little bit. He had a stack of job applications gathering dust in his place in DC, but that was before….well, before. Job applications suddenly seemed unimportant. And he still had a little money left before he was in dire straits. So he took two aspirin and decided to go memory hunting.

By mid-afternoon, he’d made his way to Brooklyn, and, more specifically, the neighborhood where Steve and the Barnes had grown up. Bucky had been there before, for his research, but then he had been laser-focused on his work. He didn’t take the time to really look or to feel much of anything at all. Now, he took his time. He wandered down the streets slowly, drinking in the crumbling buildings and the ones that had been replaced by steel and concrete. Memories came back irregularly, only wisps of moments at times, and whole days pouring in at others. When a particularly strong memory hit him in an alleyway, he sat down and rested against the brick wall to breathe through the pounding in his head. He muttered, “‘Do this all day’, huh, Steve? You know how many times I had to save your ass? Stupid punk.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a little surprised to feel it so long. “Maybe I should cut my hair after all. Or maybe it’d just confuse me more.”

He dropped his hand and sighed. “And now I’m talking to myself in some random alley in Brooklyn. Not your finest moment, Barnes.”

He stood up, dusting off his ass, and headed, as he always did in times of trouble, to the library.

He’d been in this library before when he was in search of the first Bucky’s lost letters, so he knew his way around. He found a secluded study room and settled in with a notebook. He wrote, just wrote without stopping to think too deeply. His observations, memories, thoughts, feelings, fears; all of it in one unending stream. That was always how he wrote best—got it all out and found the meaningful parts later. He stayed till just before closing, filling up almost a dozen pages with cramped and messy words.

In fact, when he emerged from the cubical, there was only one person on the whole floor—a woman with dark red hair flat-ironed within an inch of its life, looking thoroughly absorbed in her reading.

“Evening, James,” she said casually as he passed, flipping through her book of 17th-century frescos. Bucky stopped short, hoisting his bag a little more securely on his shoulder.

“Excuse me?” he asked. “Are you talking to me?”

“Depends. Are you the man I’m looking for?”

“If you’re looking for Dr. Brunes, you’ve found him.”

“And if I’m looking for Sargent Barnes?”

“Him, too.”

The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Interesting. I didn’t think you’d admit to it.”

Bucky shifted his weight. “Well, I wouldn’t to just anyone, but you’re supernaturally beautiful and packing at least one gun, which means you’re a superhero, which means Steve sent you, which means you’re the Black Widow.”

“Natasha,” she said, looking pleasantly surprised. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky nodded. “And you. So. Now what?”

Natasha shrugged. “Up to you. Steve asked me to find you, make sure you were safe—you seem mentally stable and physically well, full points there—so my mission’s complete.”

“Really?”

“Steve worries like a mother hen, but he’s not a controlling asshole. I’m not going to knock you over the head and drag you to him or anything.”

“Would you take me to him, if I asked?”

Natasha considered him for a moment, tilting her head. “No,” she said finally. “Neither of you are ready for that yet. I’ve done the whole ‘repressed memories and re-finding loved ones’ thing before, and trust me. Even if you think you’re ready, you’re not.”

Bucky tore a blank page from his notebook and scribbled down a few lines. He folded it twice and handed it to Natasha.

“Can you give him this for me?” 

Natasha took the paper and tucked it into her pocket without glancing at it. “Sure thing, Sarge. See you around.”

To say that she melted into the shadows would be melodramatic and not quite true, but she did vanish pretty efficiently and the library was dark, so. Bucky shook his head and left, noticing for the first time all day how hungry he was. He wondered what Steve was doing. 

Bucky spent another week in Brooklyn, wringing memories out of the place and writing them down at night. They came back at irregular intervals and they weren’t just the nice ones, anymore. There, the corner store where he and Steve scrounged up pocket money to buy paperbacks and comic books. The route they walked to school. Every alley where they’d gotten into fistfights. The hospital Steve’s ma had worked in, died in. The art studio Steve always wanted to attend but could never afford. That cafe they had a fight in when Bucky got drafted and Steve didn’t. The gay bar Bucky and Steve went to once and forgot to stop holding hands when they left. There was no trace of the blood on the brick wall outside anymore, but Bucky knew where it used to be, and it made him feel sick.

When he had a patchwork version of another childhood in his notebook and remembering didn’t make his vision swim, he decided it was time to go back home to DC. 

Winter was both delighted and pissed off to see him. He’d left her with his neighbor, a dude around his age who worked more-or-less regular hours and could be counted on to take care of her. They’d gotten drinks together a few times, so Bucky considered him a friend. Being trustworthy enough to care for Winter made him a good one.

“Thanks, Sam,” Bucky said, trying to coax Winter back into her carrier. “Are you sure I can’t pay you something? I know she must have shat on something or torn up your curtains.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Sam said. He scratched Winter’s back and pushed her into the carrier with no problem. Bucky glared at her for the betrayal, but she flicked her tail, unconcerned. “But if you really want to make it up to me, tell me what had your panties in a twist when you dropped her off.”

Bucky shuffled his feet a little self-consciously. “Yeah, sorry about that. I could have asked nicer. That was really rude of me.”

Sam laughed. “It’s all good. I love your cat almost as much as she loves me. I was just worried about you.”

Bucky rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. It’s been a weird week.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam said.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky said. Sam looked surprised. It must have shown on his face how much this week had been weighing on Bucky because Sam opened the door a little wider and waved Bucky inside.

Winter was happy to get back in Sam’s house. Bucky collapsed on Sam’s couch and Winter let him pick her up for once. She curled up in his lap, purring up a storm, while Sam sat next to Bucky.

“Okay, spill,” Sam prompted. Bucky buried his hand in Winter’s fur and said, without preamble, “I’m Captain America’s dead best friend.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Of all the things I expected you to say, that was pretty low on the list,” he said. Bucky almost laughed. He scrubbed a hand across his beard, which was growing more scraggly by the day.

“It sounds crazy, right?” 

“Well, yeah. But listen, I’m a therapist. I’ve heard a shit ton of weirder coping methods. Feeling a strong connection to a famous or fictional person isn’t unusual, you know. There’s a pretty large community online.”

“Wait, what?” Bucky said. Sam had his hands clasped together, and his voice slid into something calm and steady. Bucky had been to enough therapists in his life to recognize one in action.

“No, this isn’t like that,” Bucky insisted. Sam held up his hands.

“Of course. It feels very real to you, and I’m not going to tell you it isn’t. Projecting your emotions onto a separate entity is a healthy and effective way of coping with trauma, Jamie. It’s perfectly normal.”

“That’s—wait, _trauma?_ I haven’t experienced any trauma,” Bucky said. _At least, not in this life_ , he reminded himself. If the memories that came back had been true, his old self certainly had his share. But it hadn’t carried over—at least not much. Nightmares weren’t the worst thing to live with. Sam glanced at Bucky’s prosthetic arm, but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he said, “Jamie, your parents kicked you out when you were, what, fourteen? Younger? That definitely counts as traumatic.”

“Thirteen,” Bucky corrected. “And yeah, maybe it was when I was younger, but I’m fine now. And, anyway, that’s not the point! When I say that I’m Bucky Barnes, I mean that I am _actually_ him. I have his memories. I have his _face._ Sam, I have his goddamn DNA!”

Bucky pulled the thick manila envelope Stark gave him from his bag and handed it to Sam. He took it, eying the Stark Industries logo with undisguised skepticism.

“Like I said, I know this feels incredibly real to you…” Sam trailed off, scanning through the documents. “Huh. That’s….bizarre.” 

“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I don’t know if I was sent back, or, or _reincarnated,_ or…I just don’t know. All I know is that all my life I’ve felt out of step without everyone else. I know things I reasonably shouldn’t know. I dream things and remember things and I _know how to do things_. Sam, I have never picked up a gun in my life, but I can tell you without hesitation how to clean and load a sniper rifle specific to the United States army circa 1943. I could shoot it with complete accuracy if I needed to. And Steve, he—”

Bucky took a moment to breathe. “He recognized me. The minute he saw me, Steve Rogers knew who I was.”

“Keep talking,” Sam said. There was an intensity in his eyes Bucky had never seen, like Bucky was a puzzle he was determined to solve. Bucky took a deep breath and talked. He talked about the headaches, the dreams, the museum, the day Steve spent on his couch. He didn’t talk about the kisses; some things still belonged to him alone. He talked about seeing Peggy, and the discussion that had sparked so many memories and started building his conviction of the truth. He talked about Stark’s tests and how that was the final proof he needed. He talked about his memory hunt, and showed Sam his journal. And then he sat back, drained and hoarse, and felt lighter than he had in ages.

“Wow,” Sam said finally. He shuffled through Bucky’s notes again, skimming the words for the third time. “So, what now? Assuming all of this is actually real.”

“I have no idea,” Bucky admitted. “I go back to my life, I guess. Apply for jobs. I should find Steve again, but I don’t even know where to start.”

A sly smile spread over Sam’s face and Bucky felt suddenly nervous. 

“Steve Rogers? I think I can help with that.”

“How?”

“How would you like to join me for a run tomorrow morning?”

—

Sam whispered, “Okay, so Steve usually starts his route right here. If we start now, he’ll catch up in about six minutes.”

Bucky nodded, tugging at the strings of his hoodie. “Sounds good,” he muttered.

He hadn’t been running—or anything physical—for years. He’d been good at sports when he was younger, but his arm would have made going pro difficult and his heart pulled to him towards history, and he just…stopped trying to stay in shape. The first Bucky had been in top shape, thanks to his time in the army. After his unit’s capture, he’d been even faster and stronger, enough that he could keep up with Steve if he tried, but neither of them ever talked about it. Bucky wondered if his DNA retained whatever shit they’d injected him with in that POW camp. He wondered why he only had one arm when the first Bucky had two.

He and Sam started out at a light jog. Bucky was relieved that he could keep up without too much trouble. They fell into a rhythm, and sure enough, about five minutes later, Sam muttered, “here he is, right on time.”

From behind them, someone said, “on your left,” and passed them without a glance at either of them. Adrenaline surged through Bucky, watching Steve’s retreating form. He sped up.

“Hey, man, that wasn’t the plan,” Sam complained. Bucky didn’t look back. The distance between him and Steve closed surprisingly quickly. 

“On your right,” Bucky said, passing Steve.

Steve looked over and stumbled over his own feet. “Jamie?” he asked incredulously. Bucky grinned and sped up again. He heard Steve laugh and the sound of footsteps behind him. Bucky took it as encouragement to up his own speed, grinning.

“You little shit!” Steve shouted. He caught up quickly, knocking his shoulder into Bucky’s. Bucky knocked back, but Steve pulled ahead. Bucky managed to catch up again, but just barely. Apparently, his body had retained some of the physical stuff too. Still didn’t answer the arm question, but that was for another time. 

“Can we slow down,” he huffed. “I’m not used to—this much running.”

“Oh, right,” Steve said. He skidded to a halt and Bucky gratefully slowed. He braced his hand on his knees and tried to catch his breath. 

“I remember the first time you outran me. You were so proud, you dumb punk,” he managed between gasps.

“You remember?” Steve asked. Bucky straightened up, chest still heaving. Steve was breathing hard too, but Bucky could tell it wasn’t from the running. 

Sam caught up with them, finally, but all Bucky could see was the hope in Steve’s eyes. This time, he didn’t have to disappoint him.

“Yeah, Stevie. I remember.”

The smile that spread across Steve’s face was brighter than the sun. Bucky smiled back, dumbstruck. _This is why I’m here. No matter what else happens, I’m here for him,_ he thought. He opened his arms and Steve clung to him like he was going to fall off the face of the earth—again. He held Steve just as fiercely.

“Bucky,” Steve said seriously. “You are never allowed to die again.”

“Neither are you,” Bucky said. He blinked back tears and held tighter.

“This is truly heartwarming, guys, but can we move it somewhere else?” Sam said. “You’re starting to attract attention.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Bucky muttered but released Steve anyway. To his surprise, Steve grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers. To distract himself, Bucky said, “Steve, this is my friend Sam, who you’ve been annoying with your inhumanly fast running for the past six months.”

“Hi. Sorry about that,” Steve said. There was a light blush on his cheeks, and Bucky raised his eyebrows. _Interesting._ He said, “Alright, let’s go. Me and Steve have some things to catch up on.”

“Obviously,” Sam said, eyeing their hands.

They walked a few feet behind Sam so they could talk with relative privacy. That was assuming Sam didn’t have super hearing, but Bucky wasn’t assuming a lot these days. He tried to keep his voice down anyway.

“I have a lot of questions,” Steve began.

“You’re not the only one. I’m going first, though. I think I’ve earned that,” Bucky said. 

Steve nodded, so he asked the most pressing question he had, which was, “Why did you kiss me? It was…unexpected, and that’s being generous.”

“You don’t remember?” Steve asked.

“Obviously not. But that’s not too unusual,” Bucky said. “I remember a hell of a lot, but not everything. Yet.”

“Well. It was when we were young. Twelve, maybe thirteen. I got into a fight I wasn’t prepared for.”

“Sounds like you,” Bucky interjected dryly. 

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, well. I was a dumb shit.”

“Was?”

“Shut up, I’m trying to tell you about us.”

Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand so he would continue.

“I got my ass kicked. Also not unusual for me. Some of the bigger kids called you…well, let’s just say I had recently discovered girls, and that led to you discovering boys, and those particular boys had a problem with that. They threw insults and I threw a punch. Ten minutes and a few broken fingers later, you dragged me out of the dog-pile. You patched me up the best you could and listened to me complain about how much I hurt. And you said—”

“‘It can’t be all bad. At least you met me.’ And then…I kissed you, didn’t I?” 

Steve nodded. 

“And then you said the same thing, eighty years later. Maybe I hoped it meant you remembered. Maybe I thought I could make you remember.”

Bucky was genuinely curious, despite himself, so he asked, “how did you react to getting kissed? It’s still hazy.”

Steve winced. “I might have punched you, but that was more out of surprise than anything. You were ready. I wasn’t. It took a few more years before I wanted to kiss any boy, let alone my best friend. But we got there.”

“We did,” Bucky said quietly. Memories bubbled up, still hazy and distant but growing clearer every minute. He left them come without pushing for more, which did wonders for his headache. “God, Stevie, I had it bad for you. I know we tried to keep it causal—see other people—but I burned with envy every time I saw you with Carter.” 

Then Bucky shook his head, remembering the warmth with which Peggy greeted him. Remembering late nights worrying together when Steve was on a solo mission and long afternoons of commiserating over their shared idiot. “No, that’s not right either. I did at first, but then I started talking to her more and more. I think we bonded over the only thing we had in common—loving you.” 

“I still love you, you know,” Steve said quickly. “Sorry, I just need you to know that hasn’t changed.”

Bucky bumped Steve’s hip with his own, throwing off his step for half a second. “I know, Steve. I still love you. Carter does, too.”

“You’ve spoken to Peggy?” Steve asked. “Um, lately?”

“Oh, yeah, she was the first person I looked for. She saw exactly what you did—Bucky Barnes, in the wrong time and place.”

“Or the right one,” Steve murmured.

Bucky laughed. “Okay, you sap. I see that hasn’t changed, either.” 

“Who else did you look for?” Steve asked. Bucky shrugged one shoulder. 

“No one, really. Peggy was the big one in convincing me. We shared a bottle of scotch and she helped me remember a lot of stuff. Crucial stuff, like my military id and things that never made the history books. Then I saw Stark and he confirmed my DNA is the same as it was seventy years ago—god knows how. Also, I told him that I fucked Howard, which he didn’t appreciate.”

“What?” Sam gasped, turning on his heel to face them, looking happily scandalized. 

“Hey,” Bucky said mildly. 

Sam pointed at him. “You owe me for taking care of Winter and introducing me to the concept of reincarnation. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” Bucky groused. “Yes, I fucked Howard Stark. Steve did too.”

_“What,”_ Sam repeated, looking like a kid in the world’s biggest, most inappropriate candy shop. “Who else has Captain America fucked?”

“Don’t answer that,” Steve cut in. 

“Are you worried about your darling reputation, Stevie? You didn’t use to be. Besides, it never bothered me any.”

“I know,” Steve said, but he was bright red. Bucky smirked, unable to stop himself from teasing Steve a little bit more. He lowered his voice. “Oh, I see what’s going on here. You _like_ him.”

“Do not!” Steve hissed, his face still painfully red.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Bucky promised. He gave Steve a one-handed noogie, and suddenly it was just like old times, the two of them play-wrestling and laughing like the world wasn’t dying around them. Steve managed to get Bucky in a headlock, and Bucky slapped ineffectively at his hands.

“I yield,” he gasped. Steve let him go with one more playful shove.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Steve said fondly.

“You two are….not what I expected from a super soldier and a war hero,” Sam commented. 

Bucky shook his head, grinning broadly at Steve, who grinned back. No matter how weird his life was, or how weird it would get from here on out, he couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn. Not when he was standing next to his best friend, impossibly here and alive after all this time. Not when he was holding Steve’s hand with the promise of his love still ringing in his ears. Steve grinned back at him, and though he was answering Sam, his eyes never left Bucky’s.

“Who, us? Nah. We’re just a couple of dumb kids from Brooklyn.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sidras-tak on tumblr and i always want people to talk to me


End file.
